Hard Copy
by alrightginger
Summary: Daily Prophet editor, James Potter strongly suspects he's falling for his new freelance reporter, Lily Evans. The only problem is, he's never actually seen her.


**A/N: Based on the prompt I gave myself because I have too many ideas.**

 **I want a jily fic sort of similar to the book Attachments. But instead of James working in IT or something, they both work at the prophet and Lily is some sort of freelance reporter and James is her editor and he's never seen her in person before. BC FREELANCE. He falls in love with her by simply the voice she projects on paper, and then when he finally sees her he loses his mind and is like "shit, shit, shit."**

 **And then they make out somewhere.**

 **Find me on tumblr (alrightginger) and please review!**

 **Hard Copy**

When James played professional Quidditch for Puddlemere United, he always arrived home smelling a mixture of sweat, dirt, and sometimes even blood depending on the day.

And he loved it.

He loved the soil that caked under his nails, the way his uniform clung to him after practice, he loved the way it made him feel like a _man._

He had been recruited fresh out of Hogwarts for the reserve team, and had managed to move his way up after just one season.

A prodigy, he had been called.

Puddlemere's best chance at the World Cup. The best Chaser since Joscelind Wadcock. His team had slaughtered nearly every rival they had faced, and he had set a new record for number of Quidditch goals scored in a single game.

His success had been written about in nearly every publishable magazine along with his face gracing each cover.

Hair windswept, Quidditch goggles strapped tight across his head, broom slung across one shoulder.

His smile, smug, proud. _Insanely_ arrogant.

 _That_ was the image of him during his Quidditch years. _That_ was the image that had been posted for all to see.

He had thought he was invincible.

And he nearly was.

Until about three seasons into his career when he suffered one too many Bludgers to the head, and was instructed by the team healer to retire.

He had gone back to his mother's house, he had sulked, he had cursed, he had smashed his broomstick to bits, he had burned every copy of every magazine he had saved with his stupid, smirking face on the cover.

And then he got a job.

He had been intrigued when his old school mate, Fenwick, had said he was leaving his post as Quidditch reporter for the _Prophet,_ and wondered if perhaps James would be interested in applying for it.

James' eyebrows had disappeared behind his fringe, and he had ran a calloused hand over his unshaven jawline as he considered it.

It hadn't been his first choice - _Quidditch_ itself was his first choice - but it had been a rather close second.

If he couldn't _play,_ perhaps he could still still partake in it someway, even if it was through written word.

So he had agreed, and though the first few games he attended had been frustrating sitting alone in the stands rather than being in the air above the pitch, he grew to enjoy reporting. Like most things James tried, he was good at it, and he knew his beat, was passionate about it, and it showed through on paper.

Another year passed.

A year without Quidditch.

Without dirt, sweat, and blood that stained his clothes, and made him smell like earth itself.

And instead he went home smelling like ink, parchment, and delivery owls.

And he didn't hate it.

But he didn't love it.

And though it was honestly, truly _fine,_ James still felt as though something was missing. As if Quidditch had left a Bludger size hole in him, and he would be forever listless until he found a way to fill it.

* * *

Had James known that taking the position of editor would mean giving up reporting on Quidditch totally while sitting behind a desk all day reading _other people's_ articles, he probably wouldn't have taken the job.

But Cuffe, the chief editor, had made the job seem so glamorous. Boosting his salary, and giving James his own office away from owls that would shite on him, and the gossiping McKinnon witch.

It wasn't as though he totally _minded_ Marlene. It was just that she never seemed to break for air. And when _he_ decided that he needed air that hadn't been repeatedly sucked in by her, she was the sort to scoot along in her chair, following him, all the while still rambling on about something James had lost track over twenty minutes ago until he was safely out the door.

He glanced up at McKinnon who was already looking at him, and offered her a wave before charming the blinds shut over his windows. He fell ungracefully into his seat, sighing, and propping his feet up on top of his desk.

He wondered how he had gone from being free on the handle of a broomstick, to being secluded between four walls. And he wondered if one more blow to the head was worse than feeling lost in a void.

James had been staring at Mckinnon's article on which shade of robes would be in this fall, while really daydreaming about Puddlemere Quidditch practice, when Cuffe dropped a parchment on his desk with handwriting James didn't recognize.

"What's this?" he asked, picking it up and examining it.

"An article from the new girl," gruffed Cuffe. He coughed once, and it was a booming sound against James' bare office walls. "Lily Evans. Freshly graduated from Hogwarts. We picked her up to do a few opinion pieces. She's mostly freelance."

James blinked down at the parchment. Her handwriting was small, delicate, and he noticed the careful way in which she looped her _g_ at the bottom into almost a curve.

"Evans," he said. "I've never seen her."

"She works mostly from home for right now," said Cuffe. "She doesn't come in much unless she's given a reason to."

"We don't really have the space for her to work here anyway," said James, pushing aside McKinnon's article and placing Evans' piece in front of him.

"Too crowded. Not enough desks."

"Not enough air," grumbled James under his breath before going wide-eyed down at the parchment. " _Hang on,_ is this - she wrote a piece about Puddlemere?"

"Yep," said Cuffe.

"An _opinion_ piece?"

"She had quite a lot to say," laughed Cuffe. James wondered how the sound was deeper than his actual voice. "You appear in there a few times."

" _Me?"_

"Yep. It appears she's rather fond of _you._ Not much of anything else dealing with Puddlemere though."

 _Puddlemere United, a team that could once simply flex their muscles and their beater's bats to instill a fear in their opponents, is now losing sight of the Golden Snitch, along with its top spot on the Quidditch rankings._

 _Though the season has just started, and has many more matches to go, it doesn't appear that Puddlemere is going to be able to make it even to the semi-finals if their trio of chasers are any indication._

 _Amos Diggory, a first time starter and chaser, cannot seem to find the Quaffle he's supposed to be retrieving through his ever distracting locks. While Robert Hodge, also a first time starter and chaser, seems to be unable to tell one end of his broomstick from the other._

 _Martha Westcott, a veteran chaser who has scored many a point in years past, is unable to play at the top of her game after taking a Bludger to the wrist._

" _Normally, Westcott would be replaced with someone from the reserve team," said team manager, Cole Hamilton. "But we're confident in her recovery, and her ability to play. We don't think the season will suffer because of it."_

 _Hamilton made no comment about the dwindling number of competent players currently filling the reserve team._

 _Indeed, it's been a miserable several seasons for Puddlemere United since losing their star Chaser, James Potter. It could be said that Potter was solely responsible for the agony their opposing teams felt back when he played on the team. Potter, who took to the air like a phoenix, had a successful two years on Puddlemere before taking the final Bludger to the head during his third year on the team, effectively ending his Quidditch career._

 _While it can't be said for sure whether or not the team would be lead to victory with Potter, one thing is certain. Potter certainly didn't let his electric-shocked hair distract him from the position he was being paid to play._

"Fucking hell," said James with half a laugh. "This girl's got some nerve."

He read over her article once. Then twice. Then once more. He couldn't find anything to mark up on it. Nothing that he disagreed with. And he didn't want to edit anything about the way she _saw_ him. He didn't know a single person who saw him as something still great. Still _capable_ of being great.

And she didn't even know him.

Not outside of the Quidditch pitch, at least.

He stared back down at the parchment until all of the letters started to blur together, and he couldn't make apart any of the words. And then he started to laugh. A chuckle at first, as though his laugh had gone unused for so long that it had forgotten what it was supposed to sound like. And then it was bursting through him - loud and cackling- until it shook his shoulders, and tears were streaming down his face.

"Lily Evans," he said after he collected himself. He removed his glasses, and wiped at his eyes. The ghost of a laugh coming out in puffs of shallow breath. "You've got some spunk."

* * *

 _The fact of the matter is that the Ministry could be doing a more efficient job of integrating muggle culture into magical. It should start with schooling. Muggle Studies should be a required class on the curriculum at Hogwarts that each student must take, and pass before being able to graduate._

 _Did Stubby Boardman deserve the have a turnip thrown at him during his concert in Little Norton? Who's to say? But if you're asking this witch then the answer is absolutely yes._

 _The current laws in place that are set to "protect" us from werewolves, are in turn, stripping away the basic human rights of those affected by lycanthropy. These laws are making it difficult for someone who suffers from this condition to find employment, therefore, forcing some into a life of poverty._

Was it possible to fall in love with a voice projected onto paper? Was it possible to fall in love with a person you've never even _seen_ before? James wasn't sure of anything other than his own insanity, and the swelling feeling in his chest as he stared down at her fine handwriting.

Her handwriting was delicate, but her opinions were the exact opposite.

He grumbled, running a hand through his electric- shocked hair, and leaning so far back in his seat that the front two legs came off the ground.

He was a _guy,_ and supposedly guys fell in love visually. There was love at first _sight._ Not love at first strongly written opinion.

 _And yet..._

He couldn't see Lily Evans.

But he knew that he _must_ love her.

Because she was a force, and he was her impact.

And she didn't even know him.

He sent her latest article, the one about werewolves and their restrictive rights, straight to Cuffe, instructing him to place in on the front page. And then he sat back down at his desk, in the silence of an office with four confining walls, and he pulled out her very first article.

The one about Puddlemere. The one about _him._ The one he had saved, folded, hidden away in the pull out drawer of his desk.

And he read it for the hundredth time. Scanning the bit about him over. Once. Twice. And then once more.

* * *

The next day was Saturday, and that night James was going to the flat Sirius and Remus shared for Firewhiskey, and a muggle card game that they still didn't fully understand the rules for.

He had spent the whole day thinking of Evans, and how she thought of him. If only just for the contents of her article. He wondered if she thought of him doing more than just playing Quidditch. If she wondered what he looked like in clothes that weren't a Quidditch uniform, or if she thought about him _at all_ outside of the game.

She had no idea that he was her editor. She had interviewed only with Cuffe, and her position was freelance so she never needed to come in. She mailed her articles in, and was mailed back compensation for them.

If she _did_ know that he was her editor, would she have written those things about him in her Puddlemere article? Probably so, he thought. She didn't seem to be one to hold back an opinion.

And he _liked_ that about her.

He thought about her constantly. He wondered what she was doing at any given moment, wondered what she was considering writing about for her next article, wondered what she must _look_ like.

He could possibly see her on the street, and never know.

But he liked to think that maybe, _somehow_ he would notice her.

Be drawn to her.

Called to her.

That, though he didn't know her physical appearance, her written words would act as a guide to her soul, and his own would recognize her.

James blinked over at the clock. He had hours before he had to had to go meet the lads. He had time to spare. Time in which to _not_ feel listless. He got dressed, and for the first time since he had been forced to retire from Quidditch, he went for a run.

* * *

That night, when James arrived at Remus and Sirius', he was sore. He hadn't properly worked out since he played for Puddlemere, and his muscles ached at the reminder.

But he felt good.

Alive.

As though his heart was still there pumping blood, and he had forgotten. As though his muscles still knew what to do, and were still formed, even if they were a bit loose.

A bit rusty like the rest of him.

"Hey," said Remus, answering the door and giving James an odd look. "Why are you grinning like you've pulled a prank on Minnie?"

"Am I?" He knew that he was, but couldn't seem to stop. "Who knows."

"Christ," said Remus, his eyes widening. "Are you in love?"

"What makes you say that?"

"That's the look you normally have for Quidditch. I always assumed when you fell in love it would be about the same."

He followed Remus into the kitchen, avoiding his gaze because he still couldn't get the damn smile off of his face. He could hear what appeared to be an argument in the next room between Sirius and Peter.

"They haven't already started playing have they?"

"No," said Remus. He could feel Remus studying him. He felt his eyes on the back of his head. " _Something's_ up with you."

James turned, quirking an eyebrow at his mate. "You think so?"

"Yes," he said. "You're happy."

"I don't need a reason to be _happy."_

Remus snorted. "Lately you do. You haven't fully been happy since you stopped playing Quidditch."

"That's not true," he said. He was grinning so hard he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from splitting his face in two. "I've been plenty happy."

"Oh my god," said Remus with half a laugh. " _Oh my god._ You _are_ in love."

"I'm not in _love."_

"You've met a girl at least."

James swallowed. Out of all of his friends, Remus would perhaps be the most _understanding._ The most open minded to a completely unusual situation. And it was killing him, keeping it inside of him like he was.

"I haven't _met_ her exactly."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"She's a reporter," he said. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. "She's a freelance reporter for the _Prophet_ that's been hired to do opinion pieces, but she works from home. So I've never actually seen her."

Remus frowned, and then a look of realization crossed his face. "Reporter? The one who - who wrote…"

"The opinion piece on the werewolf laws, yeah."

"So, you've fallen in _love_ with a girl you've never actually _met?_ Just - _read?"_

"Basically," said James, shrugging.

"And you don't know what she looks like, or who she even is?" He ran a hand through his greying hair in a way he often mocked James for. "You just know her name, and the way she writes her letters-"

"Her 'g's' are adorable-"

" _James!"_

"What?"

Remus was looking at him as though he had gone mad, and it was very possible that James _had_ gone mad. Who could love a girl they had never seen? Who would develop feelings for a girl based on how strongly she voiced her opinions, or how she looped her g's in a way that nearly made them look like little treble clefs.

"Are you going to try to meet her?"

"I'm not sure," said James. He had thought about it. He just didn't know _how._ Asking Cuffe for her address, and showing up where she lived would be inappropriate. But still an option. A last resort if all else fails. "Do you think I should?"

"I don't know. What would you even say? 'Hi, I'm James your editor, and I think I may be in love with you even though we've never actually had a conversation.' I don't think that would end well."

"I wouldn't say _that."_

"Then what would you say?"

"I don't know. Something swoon worthy probably."

" _Swoon worthy?"_

James didn't have time to elaborate on the qualities that made him swoon worthy for Sirius had chosen that moment to walk into the kitchen.

"Who's swoon worthy?" He grabbed a Firewhiskey, and popped the top off. "Are you talking about James?"

James laughed, and clapped a hand on Sirius' shoulder. "That's what I've been trying to tell Remus here."

That night James lost too much money on a game he didn't fully understand, drank entirely too much Firewhiskey, and went back to his flat where he was unable to sleep.

Instead he stayed up wondering about a girl whose face he didn't know, whose skin he had never grazed, and whose voice was somehow stuck in his head without any sound.

* * *

The delivery owls were giving him problems. Well, not _all_ the delivery owls. The oldest one, Deen, an ugly tawny owl, was reluctant to run his route, and by the time James had gotten him out of the window he was covered in bird shite and feathers.

Which was _not_ the way he wanted to be seen by the most attractive woman he had ever laid eyes on.

He had turned the corner when he saw her talking to McKinnon. Dark red hair, freckles, eyes the greenest he had ever seen.

Somewhere, either in the back of his subconscious or a million miles away, _Be My Baby_ by The Ronettes - an old muggle tune his mother was fond of- began to play as he watched her laugh in slow motion to something McKinnon said, her hair whipping around slowly, and then falling perfectly back into place.

And then the music stopped like a record scratch, and she turned slowly to where he would be in her line of vision.

And…

" _Shite!"_

He ducked into the hallway, flattening himself against the wall, and praying to sweet, sweet Merlin he wouldn't meet the love of his life covered in bird shite.

How much time had passed - seconds, minutes, _hours-_ James wasn't sure, but at long last he heard the witch bid McKinnon farewell, and he felt the oxygen return to his brain.

"What are you doing back here?"

" _Fuck!"_ McKinnon had snuck up on him, looking rather smug. Her arms crossed, she leaned against the wall, and smirked at him. "Dammit, McKinnon!"

"You look like shite," she said. "Oh look." She wrinkled her nose up at his coat. Which, thanks to Deen, needed a good washing. " _That's_ why."

"Who was that?" he asked, ignoring her. "That girl. At your desk. Who was that?"

McKinnon blinked. "Oh, that was Lily."

James' heart stopped. And then it soared.

" _Evans?"_

"Yeah, she was over this way, and decided to drop her article off in person. I laid it on your desk."

" _That,"_ he said. His eyes wide, his palms sweaty. " _That was Lily Evans."_

"Yeah," she said slowly. As though he was stupid. "That's what I just _said."_

"Oh my god." He felt like he had _too much_ air in his lungs. As though she had made him fly once more without use of a broom. " _Oh my god."_

" _Oooh,"_ teased McKinnon, shimming her shoulders. "Someone has a _crush."_

"Shut up, McKinnon, and tell me everything you know about her."

* * *

James had never been so happy to hear Marlene McKinnon talk in his whole damn life. She and Lily had been school mates, though Lily was a few years behind her, _five_ years younger than James himself.

Lily's favorite color was lavender, she worked part time at Flourish and Blotts, she owned a fat ginger cat, she was positively _single._

And James had let her walk right out the front door to the _Prophet_ with no way of knowing when she would ever walk back in.

He needed to do _something._ He had to get her to come back somehow.

He was pacing around his office when he glanced at his desk for the first time since he shut himself away.

 _Her article._

There is was. Neatly set in front of his chair. His quill, which he had _never_ used before on any of her articles, laying next to it just so.

And the sudden thought dawned on it.

It was cruel. It was devious. It was _completely_ unethical.

But it would bring her back to him.

He was certain of it.

Swallowing his guilt, James sat down at his desk, dipping his quill in ink, and began scratching through until hardly anything was left.

* * *

He waited until the end of the day, when Cuffe was about to start the printing press, and brought him the butchered article Evans had left for him hours ago.

"Here," he said, dropping it on Cuffe's desk. "Print this _exactly_ how it is, and put it on the very last page before the ads."

James watched as Cuffe picked the article up, and then did a double take. His eyes scanning over it rapidly.

"There's hardly anything left of it," he huffed. "You never markup Evans' stuff!"

"This one needed it," lied James.

"Back of the paper, you say?"

"Yes."

"I hope you know what you're doing," grumbled Cuffe.

 _Me too,_ thought James.

* * *

The next morning, James sat in his office with his door wide open, and the blinds pulled all the way up. He was staring blankly at McKinnon's latest article - spells on how to whiten your teeth, and get the bags under your eyes to disappear - when he heard the front door open and slam shut with such force that he knew right away who it must be.

He heard the aggressive clicking of heels across the wood of the floorboards, and tossed his quill unceremoniously to the side, hearing it hit the wall.

He propped his feet up on his desk, trying very hard to stop the smile that was threatening his features, but finding that it was no use when he could feel her so close. As though she was pulling him into her orbit.

And then all at once she was before him. Dark red hair. Freckles. Impossibly green eyes that were narrowed. _Fuck him,_ he _was_ in love.

" _Hey!"_ She had _shouted_ at him, and it was embarrassingly exciting. And then she took a good look at him, and stopped in her tracks. James watched as a look of realization crossed her features. Clouding the anger slightly. Just slightly. "Shite, you're James Potter. _The_ James Potter."

"Indeed I am."

"You- you played for Puddlemere."

"Indeed I did," he grinned at her. His feet still propped up, and he ran a hand through his hair. He wondered if she still thought of it as electric-shocked. "How can I help you?"

She swallowed before speaking, and James saw her cheeks tint pink. And then she brushed some of her hair behind one of her ears, and saw that the blush had spread to the tips of her ears.

"You cut my article into _bits_ ," she said slowly. As though she was trying to keep her tone level, but she was failing. There was a crack in her voice, and James wondered if it was from anger or something more. " _And_ you put it on the _last page._ You've _never_ done that before. And I know damn well that article was good."

James meet her emerald eyes with his hazel, and then stood and walked slowly over towards her. Mainly to see how much shorter she was than him.

 _Six inches,_ he thought to himself. _My chin can rest at the top of her head._

"Here's the thing, Evans." He put his hands in his pockets, and cocked his head slightly. "That article - it wasn't up to your usual standards."

"That's _rubbish._ It was one of my best."

"I think you could do better."

"How?" Her nose wrinkled as her eyebrows disappeared behind her fringe. " _How_ could it have been _better?"_

"Perhaps you'd like to discuss the ways in which we could make your article better _together,"_ he said, stressing the word, and watching as her eyes went wide. "Over dinner?"

"Dinner?" she snorted with half a laugh. "Over _dinner."_

"Yes," he said simply.

"Like what - like a _date?"_

"Hmmm," hummed James, feigning thought. As if that wasn't the damn exact thing he was trying to do. "Perhaps it could be a date. You see, I _did_ take Muggle Studies in school - and I agree with you, Evans. It ought to be made mandatory."

She rolled her eyes, but James saw her lips twitch upwards just the slightest. "What's your point?"

"My point _being,_ that I've never been to the cinema, and have always wanted to go."

"You can't _talk_ at the cinema," she huffed. "We wouldn't be able to discuss my article at all."

"We can talk afterward. At dinner."

"Or your flat?" She crossed her arms, and leaned against his doorframe. "I'm not a stupid girl, James Potter."

"I know you're not, Lily Evans." He was grinning. He couldn't stop. "I've read your articles."

* * *

James wasn't sure what he had expected the cinema to look like, but he didn't expect it to be so very vast. The area where they purchased their tickets and bought buttery popcorn was large, but the actual _theater_ with the screen inside was impressive.

It was wide open, and James had always been partial to wide open spaces.

He glanced over at Lily next to him, who was looking at him from the corner of her eyes, and shaking her head as she reached into the popcorn bucket.

James had picked Lily up from her flat at seven, and when she opened the door he suspected she was trying to kill him. She was wearing a blue and yellow striped dress that had thin straps, and he could make out the freckles that scattered her shoulders even though it was dark.

Dark red hair. Freckles. Bright green eyes that shone even in the dark.

She was gorgeous.

And more than that - she was _clever._

"What?" She had caught him staring at her, and her voice was muffled with popcorn. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"It's just nice to finally _see_ you."

"What do you mean?"

He couldn't explain to her that she had been a voice in his head. Only recognizable by the way she looped her g's, or the thoughts she had placed in his mind with her opinions. He couldn't explain to her that she was better in person than anything he could have imagined. That he could look at her, and picture the voice he had already predetermined in his mindset coming out of her.

That she was _everything._

So he shook his head, tucking some of her hair behind her ear, and watched as her mouth parted slightly.

He swore he felt her stop breathing.

The screen lit up - loud, booming sound following it - and James leaned back in his seat. He watched as the screen showed him movies that were supposedly coming soon, trying his hardest to swallow his heart that was leaping into his throat.

She smelled of cinnamon and honey, and he wondered how it could be filling his senses more than the thunderous speakers of the theater.

He was trying very hard to not look over at her again, feeling that if he did so he wouldn't be able to look away, but it was very hard having her close finally. He felt like he had forgotten how to blink. How to look at something that wasn't Lily _normally._ How many times was he supposed to blink a minute? He couldn't remember, and his eyes were getting horribly dry, and then suddenly he was blinking too much.

And then he felt her hand graze his, slide underneath it, until their fingers were threaded, intertwined together. And he wondered how something so small and soft could fit so well in his large, calloused hand. As though it were meant to be there despite of the contrasts it held.

He looked over at her then, and found her already looking at him fully. Her eyes were wide, and he could see the freckles that covered her cheeks, her nose. He wondered how many there were.

He would count them later. If she would let him.

She released his hand suddenly, and James wanted to protest. Wanted to grab it, and hold onto it for the rest of the night.

But then she lifted her hand - the one that had been holding his own - and threaded her fingers through his hair. Pulling and tugging softly.

And, really, this was _better._

His eyes closed involuntarily, and leaned his head down slightly so that his lips were pressed against the inside of her wrist. Where he could feel her pulse point, and feel it's rapid pace.

"I think," she started. Slowly, softly. "I think I _may_ be a stupid girl. A very stupid girl."

His eyes flew open, and he didn't realize how close she had become. She was leaning in to him, and he could feel her breath against his lips.

"You're _not_ a stupid girl," he whispered. He wondered when his tone had gotten so husky. "Not at all."

She smiled, her eyes fluttering shut, and James noticed how long her lashes were.

"What am I then?"

"You're the cleverest girl I know," he said without hesitation.

"I think I could do _better,"_ she said, and her lips were so close they were brushing his. Just slightly. Just enough where he could feel an electrical current. "I think _we_ could do better."

"Together?" He had pushed the armrest in between them up so that he could pull her closer. Impossibly closer.

"Definitely, definitely together."

And then there wasn't any space left between them, and all James could do was breath her in.

* * *

They weren't able to watch the film end. They were hardly able to watch it _begin._

Not with the way Lily's lips were on his, her teeth grazing his lower lip, and pulling until he was groaning.

Not with the way her hands had undone the first two buttons of his shirt, her palms grazing his chest, his collarbone, reaching to the back of his neck, and prickling it with little goosebumps.

Not with the way their kissed moved from gentle, exploring one another, to hard presses and a clashing of teeth and tongues.

Not with the way she pushed into him until he was pressed against the wall of the cinema, her nearly on top of him, and he wondered what it would be like to press _her_ into something.

Preferably his mattress.

Or perhaps his bedroom door to start with.

And the idea was so appealing, that it was exactly what he had done. Tugging her up by her hand, leading her out of the theater door, and checking just once to make sure it was clear before apparating them back to his flat. Stumbling, crashing against his bedroom door.

" _Fuck,"_ she groaned, her back hitting the wood with a _thud_ , his hands gripping her waist. Pushing her in closer. "You did all this on purpose - "

Her words, he knew from her articles, were sweet, but her lips were almost sugar against his. It was hard to find a balance between the two right now. He wanted them both. He wanted to taste her. _All_ of her. And he wanted to _hear_ her. Especially if it was his name leaving her mouth.

"Did what?" As if he didn't _know._ "What do you mean?"

She reached between them to undo the buttons of his shirt - the ones she hadn't already undone at the cinema - and James thought the slow pace in which she undid each one was driving him mad.

"The article - _everything,"_ she said. His button up shirt fell to the floor. Puddling, wrinkling. James kicked it away. Her hands pushed their way under his white t-shirt, all the way up his chest, to the beating of his heart. "I just can't figure out _why."_

"You're clever, Evans." He slid two fingers underneath the strap of her dress. She was too clothed. They both were. "You'll figure it out."

She shook her head. "I don't know _why._ I can't understand it. You didn't _know_ me. Not really."

"I did," he protested.

" _How?"_

"Your articles, Evans. Your words, your voice, your opinions on the things that _matter_ to you. I knew you from _those_ things. And then when I finally _did_ see you - you looked like you were all of those things. Like the words from the articles I read could - _did_ come from you. "

"That's not how it _works._ You see someone, and _then_ you figure out their personality _,"_ she said. Though she sounded as though she was trying to convince herself. Even as she tugged his shirt over his head causing her eyes to go wide. " _Fuck,_ you're fit."

"As if you didn't _know,"_ he snorted. Though he was trying desperately not to grin like an idiot. They way she often made him do without knowing it. "You wrote that article on Puddlemere."

"Liked that did you?"

"It stroked my ego a bit, yes."

"Hmm," she hummed. Her hands trailed upwards from his chest until they were at his jawline. Cupping, thumb brushing, impossibly tender. He wondered how she could possibly be so fierce and yet so soft. "James, do you think - do you think that love at first sight is a thing?"

She was staring at him. Her wide eyes searching.

"I don't know," he said. "Do you think love before even _that_ is a thing?"

"Oh," she breathed. Her breath caught in her throat, but that was okay. James had impossibly too much air in his lungs. He felt like he was flying. " _Oh."_

He closed the space between them, kissing her with everything in him, because she was breathless and he had air to give.

* * *

James leaned against his desk, hands in the pockets of his trousers, and a stupid smile on his face. Evans - Lily, _his_ Lily - was sitting at her new desk at her new full time job at the _Prophet._ Moving from freelance opinion reporter to the official Quidditch reporter for the _Prophet._ The new position came with a full time salary, tickets to every game, and a desk right outside James' office.

He could tell she was trying hard not to look at him. They had agreed to keep their relationship a secret until enough time had passed for it to not seem suspicious.

Especially since she had been offered the Quidditch reporter position by Cuffe the day _after_ they had shagged.

James didn't want to do anything to jeopardize her career. Something that she had worked so hard on, and was _good_ at. Frankly, she was the best Quidditch reporter they had since - well, _him._

While she was looking away, glancing in his direction out of the corner of her eye just a bit, James was staring openingly at her.

How could he look anywhere else when the very sight of her made his chest swell? Something inside of him was threatening to burst. Itching to touch her.

And while they couldn't go public with their relationship just yet, there were certain perks of being her editor.

" _Evans!_ I need to see you in my office," he bellowed. He hoped that his eyes weren't betraying him. "It's about your latest article. It's rubbish."

He watched her brow furrow, and her shoulders rise and fall as she sighed. _Merlin,_ he loved riling her up.

"Coming," she said.

He leaned against the door to his office as she entered, and saw McKinnon give him a knowing look before he shut the door - _hard-_ and charmed the blinds down.

"Okay, you're really bad at this," she said, rolling her eyes. She sat herself on his desk, crossing a pretty leg over the other. "Like, horribly - _horribly_ bad."

"How do you know something really isn't wrong with your article?"

"I swear to _Merlin,_ James. If you butcher another one of my articles just to get sex, I will _murder you."_

"Not break up with me?" Teasing, taunting. _This_ was their foreplay. "Can we have sex _before_ you murder me. I want to die a happy man."

" _James!"_

"I'm only joking," he grinned. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with your article. But there are _other_ things in which I think you could - _do better."_

She bit her lower lip, making James _extremely_ jealous of her own teeth, and popped the first two buttons of her blouse undone. "Is that so? And what exactly do you think I could do to improve, _Mr. Potter._ I'm all ears, editor."

"Hmm," he hummed. _Merlin,_ he loved it when she called him Mr. Potter. "I think you're on the right track."

He closed the space between them, pushing her back down flat against the desk of his office, and sending ink and parchment scattering everywhere.

And, really, James didn't miss the smell of dirt, sweat, or blood anymore. He certainly didn't miss this smell of ink, parchment, and bird shite.

Not when he got to go home smelling like cinnamon, honey, and sugar everyday now.

And he thanked Merlin for that damn Bludger to the head.


End file.
